It’s been a work in progress. I’ve noticed little changes here and there. But it finally happened. My little girl is no longer “little”. I used the (“) because she will ALWAYS be my little girl. At 10, she’s no longer little. In the past few weeks things have happened. She now sits in the front seat of the car; and was very proud that she could call shotgun on the oldest and actually mean it. She’s begging for Jordans for the school year, so she can be cool. She doesn’t understand why she can’t have a smart phone. You know, because all her friends have phones. I’m no longer allowed to give her kisses or say “I love you” to her when I drop her off at camp. Apparently, it’s embarrassing. The most notable change? I’m no longer Mommy. I’m just Mom. Oh, it’s said often, and usually with some sort of demand. But that’s the change that’s breaking my heart a little. Mom. Not Mommy. We’ve gone from this:
Dear fantastical daughter of mine:
I know you are growing up. You are growing up, and I’m growing old. Those are facts. Here are a few other facts for you. Fact #1: I’m also proud that you get to call shotgun, and mean it. But now the game is real. If Allison calls it before you, suck it up and get your ass in the back seat. Those are the rules sweetheart. Just learn to be smart enough to call it for the ride back. Fact #2: I don’t know what fucking Jordans are. Like any supportive mother, I Googled it. News Flash: You will get sneakers I can afford. Your feet grow too fast for me to spend $100 on sneakers every 3 months. Fact #3: You my love, will not have a phone for at least another 3 years. I don’t give a shit that all of your friends have smart phones. They probably have Jordans, too. I DON’T CARE. And if you keep asking me for one, you’ll be 16 before you can hand out your digits. Or your dad pays for it. You know the answer to that. Fact #4: I gave birth to you. I labored for NUMEROUS hours with no epidural. When I drop you off at camp, I will give you kisses. I will tell you I love you. No one goes through that much pain unless they truly love something; that my dear is you. I am your mom. Your mother. Your Mommy. I will embarrass you for the rest of your life. Deal with it. Just think of it as payment for all those temper tantrums you threw in Target when you were 2. For the record, oh wee one, for me to tell you that I love you isn’t embarrassing. It’s essential. I need you to know that I LOVE YOU. And given the amount of times I have to tell you to clean your room, it will take a while for it to sink in.
Can’t wait for the teen years.